


Leave It

by Rachel_Martin64



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Humor, Explicit Language, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Military, Military Homophobia, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachel_Martin64/pseuds/Rachel_Martin64
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series. Army Jim and Hippie Blair meet in Central America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Thanks** to Julad and Calico for the encouragement!
> 
> This story was written around 1999.
> 
> You may want to read this story review first: http://www.katspace.org/reviews/netfic/Author/Rachel_Martin/

Ellison sat back against the door of the wooden hut he shared with three other officers.

Evening, and the temperature hovered in the nineties. As usual. The humidity was as close to one-hundred-percent as it could get without actually raining. Still, it was better to bathe in bug juice and sit outside rather than suffocate inside. The huts had no air conditioning, of course. No electricity. No running water. Basically, they were for protecting a soldier's body and belongings from the jungle. And, of course, for engaging in sex.

Ellison looked steadily through the murky air, down what was laughingly called Officers' Row, at Irving's hut.

He listened involuntarily to Armed Forces Radio Network. AFRN was a morale thing, mainly. The DJ played the Top 100 and read the entertainment and fashion news. Kept the teenage soldiers in touch with pop culture back home. Ellison rubbed his temples. He cared nothing for pop music and less than nothing for pop culture. He didn't want to hear the music spilling softly from a far-off short-wave radio. He couldn't help it. His hearing was steadily becoming more of a bitch than a blessing.

Ellison made a mighty effort to tune out the latest from Gloria Estefan. He focused on the middle-aged woman who sat cross-legged, meditatively, in front of her own hut. He felt reasonably sure Irving didn't notice him. So he could while away another evening studying her.

There were not a lot of women in the small, excruciatingly isolated camp. He’d overheard one of them orienting a newcomer: "If we fuck 'em, we're sluts. If we don't, we're lesbians." Most of the women resolved the dilemma by establishing an interim monogamous relationship with a bruiser, someone who'd keep off the rest of the wolves and uphold her reputation as a heterosexual.

Ellison wasn't surprised to be propositioned by almost all the unattached women in camp. He was a big guy, and a Ranger besides. A lot of women got off on Special Forces shit. Ellison was conscientiously polite to the women who propositioned him. He turned them down tactfully. He kept himself available. He waited to be approached by the woman who had piqued his interest.

Irving was the only black woman he knew who didn't chemically straighten her hair. He thought the close-cropped hairstyle gave her an edgy New York look, despite the gray she took no trouble to color. Unlike every other woman in camp, she did not use nail polish or attempt to wear makeup. And "attempt" was the word -- in this heat and humidity, makeup slid off almost as fast as it was applied. Not that this deterred the other females. He had never seen Irving wear jewelry. He had never smelled perfume on her. Her off-duty apparel was relatively modest for the climate.

Naturally, Colonel Irving was rumored to be a lesbian. A career-killing rumor, for a woman who served as the camp's commander. Maybe even a life-threatening rumor.

Ellison didn't believe Irving was a lesbian. He knew she looked at him, and he thought she looked... interested. He waited for her, the higher-ranking individual, to make the first move. He'd never doubted she would, if only to quash the rumors.

And yet Irving never sought him out except on business. Never engaged him in idle chitchat. Never got in his personal space. Never patted his arm or "corrected" his uniform. Which, of course, could simply mean she paid more attention than he did to those lectures on sexual harassment and fraternization.

Time he quit thinking with his dick. A colonel, for chrissakes. A woman who had to be about ten years older than himself. A black woman, and wouldn't that go over big with the brothers. He could take his pick of the women wherever he went, and here he was losing time lusting after Irving.

Ellison knew dispassionately he had to acquire a serious girlfriend soon. Actually, he had to acquire a wife.

He was thirty-one years old and unmarried. The wonder of it was he'd been promoted to captain anyway. Any unmarried soldier over thirty was rumored to be gay. Ellison hadn't met a woman he cared enough about to marry -- but his peers would have hooted down that defense. Soldiers didn't marry for love. They married because the Army paid married soldiers more. Married soldiers didn't have to live in the barracks; the Army gave them private houses on post, or paid them housing allowances to live off post. Married soldiers didn't have to eat in the messhall; the Army paid them grocery allowances instead.

But above and beyond all other considerations, a spouse was important evidence of one's heterosexuality. Ellison knew he'd never advance any further in his military career without a ring on his finger. It was past time for him to enter into a standard Army marriage of convenience. He knew he ought to acquire a bride while serving in Central America. Any Central American woman would marry a GI to get US citizenship for herself and work permits for her relatives. He'd use her, she'd use him. He need not suffer a pang of conscience.

Love was supposed to be nice.

Ellison told himself to get real. Lust was as good as it got.

So he sat and lusted after Irving, until she went back inside her hut.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ellison walked briskly into camp headquarters at oh-six-hundred the following day. He strode through the common area and down a hall into Xhao's office. Xhao was the camp's personnel officer.

Ellison walked in on him unceremoniously. "Got your message. What's up?"

The other captain swiveled around in his chair. "You've been re-assigned, Ellison. Orders came over the wire this morning. Peru."

Ellison did not indulge in double-takes or fatuous remarks. He said merely, "Any details?"

"Not much. Didn't come over a secure channel. Here's what there is." Xhao pushed a piece of paper across his desk. "You report to Southern Command in three days. You'll have to leave tomorrow morning. Cuz the next helicopter is a week after that. So you get a couple days' leave in the capital." Xhao grinned. "Want some phone numbers?"

Ellison opened his mouth to curtly decline the offer. He remembered he needed a wife. He said, "Thanks."

Ellison picked up his orders, put them in his pocket, and made a decision. He'd get married before he reported to Southern Command.

"Good time to get outta Dodge," Xhao observed. "The Chanu are upset."

Ellison digested this. "Same ol' same ol'?"

"Yep." Xhao grinned again. "I'm betting it's our buddies from the School of the Americas."

Ellison was too prudent to react in any way to Xhao's remark. Months ago, Ellison had disciplined himself to work with School of the Americas graduates. He had to trust his chain of command. He had to have faith in the Army mission. Otherwise he would begin hesitating. And while he hesitated the enemy would kill him. So Ellison refused to think about why he was serving in an Army that ran a School of the Americas. Instead, he decided to ask Xhao to refer him to anyone in camp who had served in Peru.

"Captain Ellison?"

Ellison turned. A sergeant – Donnelly, according to his nametape – standing in the doorway. Ellison didn't recognize the redhead – must be a recent arrival. Donnelly said, "Colonel Irving would like to speak to you when you're finished here, sir."

Of course, Irving could have just walked down the hall to Xhao's office. But colonels didn't walk to captains. Ellison filed away his question about Peru. He nodded dismissively at the sergeant and looked at Xhao. The personnel officer leaned over his desk and shook Ellison's hand. "Good luck," he said casually.

Xhao was not perturbed about Ellison's imminent departure. Ellison knew no one would be. He had no friends, only acquaintances. And his unrequited lust for Irving.

Ellison walked from Xhao's office to Irving's. He stopped in the open doorway and rapped on the adjoining wall three times. Irving looked up and nodded.

Ellison crossed the room, stopped in front of her desk, got to attention, and saluted. "Ma'am."

"At ease, Captain."

She didn't stand to greet him. A colonel didn't stand when a captain entered the room. Ellison waited for her to finish shuffling papers. It wasn't his place to speak first.

From under lowered eyes, he studied the framed photo propped on top of Irving's filing cabinet. Two teenaged boys. In the custody of a civilian ex-husband in Chicago. Half the colonel's income went to child support and alimony. Ellison had never met the personnel clerk who couldn't be bribed to gossip.

His eyes drifted past the photo to Irving herself. She didn't look like a black actress or model. Meaning she didn't look like a Caucasian with a tan. She had yellow-brown tiger eyes. A broad nose and prominent cheekbones that made her look part Indian. Luscious lips that Ellison would die to feel around his cock. The Army probably had a special cell block at Fort Leavenworth for captains who whacked off to fantasies involving colonels' lips.

Irving had hung her camouflage jacket over the back of her chair and was working in a regulation short-sleeved brown T-shirt. The loose shirt showed off her sculpted arms and, happily, did not entirely disguise her breasts. Irving's breasts seemed quite pleasantly proportioned to her petite figure. Ellison imagined that small body under his own in bed. Imagined her legs wrapped around his waist. Imagined --

"The Chanu," Irving said, and sighed.

Ellison shut off his libido as efficiently as he did everything else.

"The Chanu are still accusing us of theft. Or kidnapping. Hard to tell which. Things are coming to a boil." She added wryly, "At least they're not accusing us of rape and murder."

Irving did not add, "Thank God." Ellison had never heard her say, "Thank God." Irving did not have religious mottoes like "Onward Christian Soldiers" tacked up in her office, as everyone else did. Irving did not attend the camp's weekly prayer meeting, which was supposedly non-denominational but really evangelical Protestant. Ellison himself never missed a prayer meeting. Non-believers were considered untrustworthy and unpatriotic.

Irving picked up a paper from an open folder on her desk. "Our translators can't tell if the Chanu are referring to a man, or a male animal, or an object assigned to the masculine gender. We don't have any unauthorized people in camp, and we certainly don't have any animals, so it's got to be an object." Irving dropped the paper back into the folder. "The Chanu call it a sentry, a sentinel. I think it must be an idol."

"You think we have something of theirs after all?"

Irving looked resigned. "Maybe one of our boys found something in a shrine. Or traded for it with an unauthorized member of the tribe. And then, I'm afraid, our boy took it with him to his next assignment. We'd've found it by now if it was still here. Bottom line: I’ve invited the Chanu leaders into camp today."

Ellison raised his eyebrows.

"To distract them while we retrieve our equipment. It looks like we'll have to abandon this site." Irving sighed again. "Sergeant Donnelly and Specialist Jackson are going after one of the satellite transmission relays. But it's the one positioned near the temple ruins. I wanted to ask if you'd go with them."

Because he was a Ranger. He had a real job skill there. A promising future in the private sector as a mob enforcer.

"If you're willing, I'll talk to your section leader." Irving hesitated. "I heard at the senior staff meeting that you're leaving tomorrow."

Ellison wondered if he had imagined an altered tone to her voice. He glanced quickly and directly into the tiger eyes. Opaque as the animal's.

Iving continued smoothly, "I'll understand if you want to spend today tying up loose ends."

His work? He could hand that off in a verbal report. Outprocessing? In this small camp, it would take under an hour. Packing? That was a laugh. Would take fifteen minutes, tops. Irving herself was the only loose end he'd like to tie up.

_Don't go there, pal._

Aloud he said, "I'll be glad to help you out, ma'am."

"Thanks." She smiled. Irving seldom smiled. Ellison was glad to know he'd been the cause. Christ, he was pitiful. "Jackson and Donnelly are waiting out in the common area. Would you get them?"

Of course, Irving could've just raised her voice and called them. But a colonel did not call people when there was a captain around to do it for her. Ellison turned, walked to the door and gestured the two men into Irving's office.

"Captain Ellison is going to accompany you," she said after the usual formalities. "Fill him in, please. Draw weapons and gear and leave when ready. I'll expect you back no later than sunset." She looked at Ellison. "It's quite a hike. Five miles each way."

Five miles. Two and a half hours, best speed. Five hours at worst. Each way. Depending on vegetation, terrain, weather, and, of course, any encounters with bad guys.

"Take care." She waved her hand in a casual gesture of dismissal. No formal leavetaking required, then. Ellison began turning to the door. He quite forgot the ultimate formality.

The red-headed sergeant, Donnelly, did not. Donnelly looked at Irving expectantly and said, "Lead a prayer, ma'am?"

Irving pushed back her chair and stood up. "I'm an atheist," she said evenly. "But you may use my office for a moment." She walked out.

Ellison glanced at Donnelly's flabbergasted face.

Later he wished he'd glanced at his watch instead. So he could have told Irving the exact moment he'd fallen in love with her.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Water, of course; two full canteens on his belt and two more in his cargo pockets. Salt tablets, well, he'd been carrying a vial of them in one pocket or another since his arrival in Central America. The dehydrated rations were light enough, and Ellison tossed about 3,000 calories into his pockets. It was scary how many calories he could scarf down in a day. He'd better never take a desk job.

Donnelly took the field medic kit and Jackson took a pair of binoculars. Each man took a map and a Global Positioning System device. The camp had GPSs but still stocked those bulky, heavy field radios that had to be hauled on someone's back. Ellison loaded a radio into a pack and slung it over his own shoulders.

They went from the quartermaster to the armory sergeant and drew M16 automatic rifles and ammunition. They drew a sheathed machete; Jackson buckled it around his waist and made cracks about Zorro.

They dug out compact mirrors and camouflage sticks and painted their faces and necks and hands. They doused themselves with bug juice and rolled down the sleeves of their jackets for extra protection from insects and vegetation. And then they walked single-file out of camp, Ellison in the lead. They checked out with the perimeter guard who opened the west gate for them and they plunged into what Ellison still found himself calling "the woods."

They talked a bit, in the first thirty minutes.

Ellison took down the map coordinates of the satellite relay – a dish eighteen inches in diameter, small enough to be affixed to the limb of a tree, which, in fact, it was. This particular relay turned out to be Jackson's baby; he'd positioned it originally and nursed it since.

Jackson, a black teenager, was an electronic warfare specialist who Ellison had seen around camp for months. Donnelly, an Irish mick who appeared to be in his mid-twenties, volunteered that he shared the same specialty. Other than that, Donnelly contributed little to the conversation. Maybe he wasn't much of a talker. Or maybe he just wasn't much of a talker around Ellison. Ellison knew he had a dampening effect on many normally friendly men. It had a lot to do with his size, and even more to do with his lousy personality. Fortunately women cared not a whit for his personality. Yeah, real fortunate.

By the end of the hour they were hiking in silence. Relative silence – the constant hum and click and squawk of insects and frogs and birds no longer registered with Ellison. For the most part the vegetation was not unimpenetrable in this region and by mutual consent they detoured around thickets rather than hack through.

Ellison and Donnelly swapped burdens; Ellison took the medic kit, Donnelly took the radio. Jackson insisted on swapping positions with Ellison and without comment the captain let the skinny kid take point. Jackson broke trail determinedly. It was the sort of macho bullshit Ellison remembered well from his own youth.

Ellison used about half his brain to watch and listen. He used the other half to think about Irving. The Irving situation was out of control. Like a teenaged girl, he was confusing lust with love. And he did not need either in his life.

He was thirty-one years old and a promotion board was breathing down his neck and he had to get on with getting married. Furthermore, the purpose of female companionship was to advance his career, not to bury it under fraternization charges. If they didn't dishonorably discharge him for bedding Irving, they'd send him to some hellhole where there weren't any women at all until he got crazed enough to fuck men. Then they'd dishonorably discharge him for homosexual conduct.

Ellison diverted himself from this gloomy vision of the future by taking out a compressed dehydrated oblong that had once been an apple. He glanced up, absentmindedly focusing on the back of Donnelly's jacket. With a jolt, he noticed the white bands that had formed across the camouflage pattern.

"Donnelly, stop. Jackson, hold up there. Donnelly, take off your jacket."

Obediently Donnelly unbuttoned and removed his jacket. He stood in his sweat-soaked brown T-shirt and looked uneasily at Ellison.

"Donnelly, look at the back of your jacket." Ellison leaned forward and caught hold of the canteens on Donnelly's web belt. He bounced the canteens up and down in his hands. Practically full. "What the hell's the matter with you?"

"Sir?"

"How long did you plan on lasting in this climate?"

Donnelly said confusedly, "Sir, I go back to Brooklyn in two weeks. I'm a Reservist."

Ellison exhaled slowly. Silently he savaged himself for thinking about personal issues during a mission.

He said calmly, "That white stuff on your jacket is salt. From your body. Are you dizzy? Nauseated? Feel any cramps?"

Donnelly shook his head to each symptom.

Ellison did not exhibit the relief he felt. He fished out his vial of salt tablets, shook one into his palm and handed it to Donnelly. "Take that and start drinking water. Drink half a canteen. We're not moving till you do."

Donnelly unclipped a canteen from his belt and started drinking as Ellison loomed over him. It didn't occur to Ellison that he was intimidating the man until Jackson made an obvious bid to draw some of his attention away from the sergeant.

"Hey, sir. How's my makeup doing?"

Recollecting himself, Ellison stepped out of Donnelly's space and glanced at the kid. "Guess we could all use a touchup."

Donnelly forced down a few more swallows of water. Ellison took the man's canteen, shook it and handed it back. "Okay. Pour some water over your head and neck. And sit down while I do Jackson." Both men guffawed on cue. He took out his paint sticks and beckoned the specialist.

He took his time repairing Jackson's camouflage. He wanted Donnelly to get a good fifteen minutes' rest what with all that water sloshing around in his stomach. When he finished with Jackson, the teenager got up and restlessly wandered off. Ellison squatted in front of Donnelly next, ostensibly applying paint, actually examining the man for external symptoms of heat exhaustion.

He saw none. Enough camouflage had melted from Donnelly's lips for Ellison to see they were pink, not pale. Thankfully, the man's skin was warm and sweaty --not cool and clammy, or, worse yet, dry. Ellison felt another wash of relief.

Donnelly said, "Uh, thanks, sir."

Ellison began to shrug. He stopped mid-motion. Donnelly looked questioningly at him.

Ellison pivoted. He saw Jackson aimlessly exploring about ten yards ahead. He said uncertainly, "Did you hear – "

And Jackson dropped out of sight, dropped like a rock. Ellison heard a cracking noise and Jackson's short sharp scream.

In an instant Donnelly and Ellison were flat on their bellies. They faced in opposite directions, scanning for assailants, preparing to return fire.

"What?"

"Nothing, sir."

Ellison scanned the vicinity repeatedly. He could neither see nor hear anything untoward. A half-minute passed without incident.

He murmured, "We'll take up positions around Jackson. You go that way. Low-crawl it."

Donnelly nodded.

Ellison slithered off.

He very nearly fell in himself.

Dirt crumbled and began collapsing under his bulk as his right shoulder slid over the edge of the pit. Hastily he backed up. He looked across, spotted Donnelly, and maneuvered the man through hand signals to a safe position on the opposite side of the hole.

Ellison said very quietly, "Keep me covered" and put his weapon down.

With some dread Ellison peered over the edge of the hole. A dozen thoughts collided in his mind. If this were a pit-trap. . . if Jackson had fallen on stakes. . . if the stakes had been smeared with fecal material to infect as well as pierce the victim. . . But the Chanu didn't dig pit-traps, did they? Was the local militia setting traps? For the US soldiers or the Indians?

Jackson was crumpled at the bottom of what appeared to be a deep but otherwise ordinary sink-hole, a relic of the last rainy season. He had his mouth muffled against his arm. The left leg of his uniform was saturated with blood and the shin bulged out unnaturally.

He looked up at Ellison's soft whistle. For better or worse, he was conscious.

Ellison took off his web belt, stripped it of gear and lowered it into the pit. Too short. He looked across at Donnelly. "Give me your web belt."

He attached the two belts together and dangled them over the side of the hole. "Jackson. Clip this to your belt. I'm going to pull you out."

Donnelly glanced over at him doubtfully.

In another minute Jackson was sprawled out on the ground beside the hole.

Ellison removed the pack on Jackson's back, the binoculars slung around his neck and the sheathed machete buckled around his waist. He unslung the field medic kit from his own back and sliced the kid's trousers open. Shit. A compound fracture of the tibia. He rinsed the leg but couldn't identify an entry or exit wound in the flesh. Rapidly he examined Jackson's other leg. Nothing. He pulled off the kid's jacket, rucked up the T-shirt, and rolled Jackson slightly to and fro, examining his torso, arms, neck. He saw nothing but ugly scrapes and cuts down Jackson's left side. He ran his hands over the boy's skull.

Ellison murmured, "Where's it hurt?" He hoped Jackson wouldn't start reeling off the symptoms of internal injuries.

Jackson hissed through clenched teeth, "Left leg. And left ankle."

"Yeah, we'll leave your boot on, if we take it off we may never get it back on." He sat back, looked across at Donnelly and said in a normal speaking voice, "As you were, Sergeant. We're not under fire. Just an accident." He looked down at Jackson. "No Purple Heart for you, kid."

Jackson tried to smile but grimaced.

Donnelly commented, "I never did hear a shot, but hey, when I heard you yell, I figured maybe they went in for blowdarts around here."

Ellison stared at him. Donnelly hadn't heard what Ellison had mistaken for a gunshot. Christ, the guy needed a hearing aid.

Ellison put that issue aside to worry about later. He rummaged in the medic kit for an idiot-proof, pre-loaded, self-injecting ampoule of narcotic analgesic.

"Got any allergies to medicine?"

"No, sir."

"Good." He pressed the ampoule against Jackson's thigh. "This is a pain-killer, it's like morphine."

Jackson looked glad to hear it.

Ellison got up, walked around the pit and squatted down by Donnelly. He made a show of giving back the sergeant's belt and murmured, "Keep a lookout for animals. The blood is going to attract them."

Donnelly's eyes widened. He nodded silently.

Ellison stood up and walked back around the pit. He stooped over and caught up Jackson's jacket. He turned one sleeve inside out and wadded it up.

Dropping to his knees next to Jackson, he said in a monotone, "Okay, Jackson, gonna set your leg now, gonna hurt like a motherfucker," and without a second's pause he stuffed the sleeve into Jackson's mouth, caught hold of the kid's leg above and below the break, and pulled in opposite directions.

Ellison ruthlessly tuned out the scream he could hear even through the makeshift gag. He pulled until the bone slid back under the skin and straightened out. By feel and practice and instinct, he guided the broken ends together and released the leg.

"Almost done," he gritted. He jammed on a sterile glove and inserted a finger into the wound, feeling along the shaft of the bone, assuring himself he had aligned the ends properly. He removed his finger and as rapidly as possible irrigated the wound, patted it dry, applied antibiotic ointment and bandaged the leg.

"Okay," he breathed. He tugged the sleeve out of Jackson's mouth. Clumsily, he used another part of the jacket to wipe the kid's eyes and nose. "Okay now. I'm done now." He dropped the jacket and awkwardly patted Jackson's shoulder.

He glanced over at Donnelly. The sergeant's face was carefully neutral.

Ellison looked back down at Jackson. He gently examined the inside of the kid's lower lip -- red. He examined the fingernail beds -- pink. He checked the pulse in the neck, counted the respirations. Both getting back to normal.

Ellison picked up the machete. "I'm going to go look for sticks, for a splint, okay? You're doing good there. Real good."

Jackson managed a nod.

Ellison got up and walked over to Donnelly. He bent down and gently punched the Reservist in the arm. Donnelly glanced up and smiled weakly.

"I'm getting two sticks to splint his leg. You go talk to him. Keep his mind off shit."

Donnelly nodded.

When Ellison returned, he found Donnelly sitting beside Jackson and amiably describing the latest action movies playing back in the States. The New Yorker was loading magazines like he expected a visit from a saber-toothed tiger. Quickly Ellison splinted Jackson's leg.

Jackson interrupted Donnelly with a pat to the man's knee and said softly, "Glad you came along, sir."

Ellison mumbled an acknowledgment and said briskly, "Donnelly, I want you to finish here." He pulled up Jackson's shirt and pointed to the cuts and scrapes. "And I want you to radio for a stretcher party. May not show up for a few hours. You stick with him, Donnelly. Get him back to camp. I'm going on."

"Sir!"

"Sir, it's not safe for you to be alone out here."

"Sir, I recommend we scrub the mission."

"Noted and noted. But I'm going on. If things go badly with the Chanu today, we may start evacuating camp tonight. We won't get a second chance to retrieve that relay."

"Sergeant!" Jackson appealed.

Donnelly raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "Ehhh, whaddaya want? He's bigger 'n me."

"Not to mention I outrank you," Ellison said dryly. He scooped up Jackson's backpack and binoculars. "How do I dismantle the dish? Got any instructions?"

Jackson struggled between his unhappiness with Ellison's decision and his conditioned response to obey. Conditioning won out. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small tool kit. He said, "Sir, it's nothing I could tell you quick. Just get it out of there, best you can. If it gets a little broke – " He shrugged and tried to smile. "Lesser of two evils, sir."

Ellison wanted to make tracks before it occurred to the men that he was leaving without the radio or medic kit. Ellison believed both needed to stay by Jackson. Of course, it was not smart for Ellison to be alone in the jungle without either. Lesser of two evils.

"Okay, folks, I'm outta here." He nodded at them and briskly turned away.

"Sir," Jackson said, "how about a prayer first?"

Ellison had a wild impulse to follow Irving's example. Admit his own disbelief in the God-Monster. Maybe recite that little ol' constitutional amendment about separation of church and state.

He looked down at the kid. Jackson was in pain. And chagrined at fucking the mission. And – worried about Captain Ellison. Who couldn't remember the last time anyone had worried about his six-foot-one, two-hundred-pound self.

He got down on one knee and began, "Lord, we ask your protection as we –- "

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ellison disliked running – he had a lot of body to haul around – but he could chew up the miles in a road-march. Or hike, in this case. He moved ahead steadily, tirelessly, like a machine, making far better time than he had in the company of the other two men.

The miles wore away.

The strain of vigilance was more wearing than the physical effort of walking. He scanned his surroundings, watched his footing, listened intently. If he should have an accident, here, alone, he'd have to survive until a search party could be dispatched to retrace his probable route. And if the camp were forced to evacuate, he might even be written off as missing, presumed dead.

And yet it was all too easy to drift into a stupor, to let his legs function mechanically while his brain went on autopilot. It was a danger facing any soldier on the march and Ellison no longer had companions to snap him out of it.

He crunched on dried rations. He sipped water. He talked to himself. He hummed, even sang, quietly. He critically reviewed one of his favorite fantasies, the one that involved fucking someone in the middle of a crowd – the sort of adventure James Joseph Ellison would never go through with in real life.

He did, however, anticipate a lot of less outlandish sexual encounters in the capital. Like all GIs he was wary of locals looking for an American soldier to beat up and he did not plan to stray far from the establishments that welcomed his kind -- brothels, strip joints, massage parlors, lower-class bars and dance clubs. Places where he could certainly find a wife if Xhao didn't come through.

Of course he wasn't fucking any woman without protection. Well, the wife, he supposed, eventually, after a doctor certified her disease-free and . . .

And for the first time it occurred to Ellison that Mother Army would expect him to father a couple of children on whatever stranger he married.

Children who would be at the stranger's mercy in his lengthy absences.

And for the first time in this whole unemotional marriage process Ellison felt a rush of revulsion.

He glanced around, down, up, deliberately seeking distraction. His eye was caught by a small, startling splash of primary colors in a tree, and he stared at it.

A flower? An animal? Some kind of Chanu shrine?

He focused more intently.

 

 

 

 

 

Ellison looked around stupidly.

He was standing still, with no recollection of why he'd stopped in the first place.

His feet ached. His calves and thighs and back ached. Abruptly his knees buckled and he fell down.

A crashing noise was fading away into the brush. Reflexively he whipped his rifle off his shoulder.

The heat, the humidity, the relative silence of the mid-day jungle enveloped him.

Mid-day?

He lowered his rifle. Bewilderedly he glanced at his watch and sucked in his breath.

He thought: _What's happening to me?_

Ellison released his breath, slowly. He sat up.

For almost a full minute he inhaled and exhaled deeply and deliberately. He took several more minutes to methodically stretch the muscles of his legs and back.

He got out the map and GPS and calculated his position. He was within one hundred yards of the relay.

Ellison pushed himself to his feet and started walking.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He heard the tuneless whistling from about twenty yards. Ellison stopped and lowered himself to the ground.

The whistling ceased.

Slowly and silently, he low-crawled forward.

The sound of shuffling boots. The sound of fabric scuffing fabric. The sound of rustling paper.

Ellison stopped. He raised his head just enough to peer through a tiny gap in the vegetation.

For a single stunned instant, Ellison thought he was looking at the back of a tall slim brunette whose long curly hair was made for wrapping around a man's cock. Then he realized the hips were too narrow and the shoulders too broad. Sheee-it. Just another damn. . .

. . . white man. Civilian. Tourist. Here. In the heart of Chanu country.

Ellison would have been only slightly more flabbergasted had Nancy Reagan tripped out from behind a tree.

The man was orienting himself with a magnetic compass. An unfolded map lay at his feet next to a backpack. He was the very image of an innocent hiker. An innocent hiker who just happened to be standing under a military relay for top secret transmissions.

Ellison pushed the rifle's safety switch over to the "off" position. He pulled back the bolt and let it snap forward loudly, chambering a round.

The other man froze. He did not dive for cover. He did not draw a weapon.

Warily, Ellison stood up. He tried English first. Somehow he didn't doubt this was a crazy American or mad Brit. "Captain James Ellison, United States Army. State your name and business."

The man turned around carefully. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Ellison's rifle and he put his hands up.

A teenager. A short beard to go with the long hair. Navy-blue eyes, pouty lips and small hoop earrings, all of which belonged on the woman Ellison had first imagined him to be. Shit but this guy was pissing him off.

"State your name and business," Ellison repeated.

"Suh - Suh - Sandburg, Blair Sandburg, I'm a US citizen, I got my passport and visa right here -- " Sandburg reached for the rear pocket of his khaki pants.

Ellison fired. The bullet dug into the dirt about six inches in front of Sandburg's hiking boots.

Ellison said in a deadly voice, "Don't. Move."

Sandburg's eyes got about the size of saucers. He squeaked, "No problem. Not moving."

Ellison walked forward slowly, rifle ready. When he was within arm's length of Sandburg he used his free hand to roughly pat the guy down. No weapons, unless a Swiss Army knife qualified. Ellison found a wallet with traveler's checks and some local currency in Sandburg's front pocket. He found a US passport, a visa, and an international student identity card in Sandburg's rear pockets. He studied the passport intently in a patch of strong sunlight. Genuine, or a better fake than he'd been trained to recognize.

Ellison moved away and knelt by the backpack. He unstrapped and examined the sleeping bag. Nothing rolled up in it but a sheet of mosquito netting and a rain tarp. He spilled the backpack and stirred its contents around. Typical hiker detritus. The only noteworthy items were a dry academic text on Central American Indian cultures and one of those leftist _People's Planet_ guides with the bright red cover.

Ellison stood. He thumbed the rifle's safety switch over to the "on" position and slung the weapon over his right shoulder. Warily, Sandburg lowered his arms.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Sandburg?"

"Why should I have to tell you?" Sandburg snapped.

"Cuz I got the gun."

"Of all the totalitarian --"

Ellison reached for his rifle.

"The ruins, I was going to see the ruins."

Ellison echoed blankly, "The ruins."

"Yeah, the Chanu temple, the pre-Columbian --"

"I know about the temple, Mr. Sandburg. It's just that I can't believe I'm looking at a white man crazy enough to go there. Alone and unarmed."

"Yeah, well, if I wanted to kill people, I'd join the Army and get paid for it."

Ellison narrowed his eyes. "The Chanu don't like white men poking around that temple, or didn't Chairman Mao's Little Red Guide Book mention that."

"Scuse me, Rambo, I didn't read about it in any guide book. I got the map coordinates from my archeology professor."

"Not to say your timing sucks, Mr. Sandburg, but it does. The Chanu are not real happy with us right now."

"Why, what have you Army guys been doing to them?"

"Raping and pillaging, Sandburg, what the fuck do you think?"

"Just what I'd expect of a capitalist tool."

"Listen, punk, I'm about two seconds away from giving you a decent haircut."

"Great, so I can be a Nazi skinhead like you."

Ellison unclenched his teeth and fists and concentrated on getting his heartrate down into the low hundreds. After a long moment he managed to say in a reasonably calm voice, "Why don't we try this again. Captain James Ellison, United States Army."

The kid hesitated. "Uh, yeah. Blair Sandburg."

"And you're heading for the ruins."

Sandburg edged toward his gear. "Are we finished here?" He knelt and hastily began stuffing his belongings back into his pack.

Ellison debated with himself a moment, took a few steps forward and knelt down next to Sandburg. He pretended not to notice how the guy shied away. Quickly and expertly he rolled Sandburg's bulky sleeping bag into a small tight bundle and strapped it to the aluminum frame of the pack.

Sandburg hurriedly swung the pack onto his shoulders and stood up. "I'm going now. Okay?"

Ellison stood as well. "Where do you hook up with your tour group?"

"Tour group? That's for Republicans."

"Where are you meeting your friends?"

"Shit, man, I don't know anyone in this country."

"When's the next time your parents expect to hear from you?"

Sandburg rolled his eyes. "I stopped checking in with Mom a long time ago. She'll see me when she sees me. Adios."

The kid turned and pushed forward into the vegetation. In moments he was invisible. But not inaudible. At least, not to Ellison. Ellison tracked the kid's progress with his ears until he could distinguish nothing more.

He took out Jackson's binoculars and began studying the branches of the surrounding trees. About thirty seconds later he put away the binoculars. Must have gotten broken when Jackson fell. He could see better without them.

Still another thirty seconds passed. He couldn't locate the dish. He was getting seriously concerned. It should be right here, dammit. Had the Chanu destroyed it? Had the local militia taken it? Had the-not-so-innocent-after-all Sandburg moved it for later retrieval? He should be staring right at it --

He was staring right at it.

He craned his neck and looked up at the superbly camouflaged satellite relay. Damn but Jackson had a future as a Hollywood makeup man.

Not going to be easy retrieving that dish by himself. Ellison shrugged. He took off his belt and flung it around the tree. Grabbing one end of the belt in each hand, he dug the heavily ridged soles of his jungle boots into the trunk and began leveraging himself up. His upper body strength was far above average but he was glad enough to come to rest in a branch of the tree. After a quick break he crawled from branch to branch until he was able to straddle one within reach of the dish. Within twenty minutes he was back on the ground. The dish was stowed in Jackson's pack. No more signals would pass through this relay for a while.

He thought: _Irving will know I got this far._

Ellison got out his map and GPS and plotted a course for the ruins.

Well, he couldn't very well let the Chanu tear out Sandburg's beating heart or whatever the fuck they'd do to him for tromping on holy ground. The guy undoubtedly voted Democrat but was still a US citizen. He, Ellison, had a duty to protect US citizens. He would not be swayed from his duty by his personal reaction to the kid.

Ellison cast about for Sandburg's trail and started after him.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ellison was as good a tracker as Ranger school could make a man, but no expertise was needed to follow Sandburg. The kid was taking the most direct route to the temple and he was making no attempt to disguise his trail. This, more than anything else, convinced Ellison that Sandburg was indeed an innocent hiker -- with an incredibly awful sense of timing.

It became apparent to Ellison that this detour would cost him anywhere from sixty to ninety minutes. Each way. More than once he paused irresolutely. If Sandburg didn't have the sense to read State Department bulletins before traveling, well . . . He was a legal adult. Nineteen years old, according to his passport.

And it wasn't like Karl Marx Junior had asked for assistance.

And Irving was waiting.

For the relay. _Don't flatter yourself, Ellison. . ._

Absorbed in his internal debate, Ellison glanced less and less frequently at the trail of snapped vines, bent twigs, torn leaves, scuffed bark and stirred-up soil. He could smell Sandburg on the vegetation, in the air, what the fuck kind of soap and shampoo did the guy use anyway? Except those were just distracting artificial scents, Sandburg-soap and Sandburg-shampoo floating on top of Sandburg-smell. . .

Ellison stumbled to a halt and pressed his fists to his face.

He yanked his canteen off his belt. He dashed some water into the palm of one hand, pressed his face into it and inhaled through his nose. The water burned his nasal passages and he sneezed and coughed violently for half a minute.

He rinsed his face and hands with clean water.

He couldn't smell Sandburg anymore.

Because he had never smelled Sandburg. Because he was having fucking hallucinations. Smelling people, as though he were a bloodhound. Hearing things, and he'd thought Donnelly had the problem! Next he'd be imagining creepy-crawlies on his skin. Like a drug addict. Like an alcoholic. Like a schizophrenic. He was having hallucinations. He --

Ellison jerked upright.

Sandburg was examining him warily through the foliage from a distance of about twenty feet.

The punk had successfully sneaked up on Captain James Ellison, US Army Ranger.

And not for the first time since his arrival in Central America, Ellison thought desperately: _What the hell is happening to me?_

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I am not going back to your camp and you can't make me either!” Sandburg said furiously. “I have civil rights, you stupid fascist pig!"

"That's Captain Pig to you." Ellison pointed meaningfully eastward.

"Drop dead, Rambo! I'm not one of your flunkies! You can't give me orders!" Sandburg turned around and began stomping westward. Ellison leaned forward and grabbed the guy's backpack with one hand. Jerked to a halt, Sandburg pawed the ground like a horse.

He bellowed, "This is false arrest! This is kidnapping! This is --"

Ellison reached around with his other hand and clamped it over Sandburg's mouth. Fervently he hoped the kid wouldn't bite. "Look, I don't care if you wanna play Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, but the Chanu think all the whites in this grid are US soldiers. And if you go in that temple they're gonna come after us."

Cautiously he released Sandburg. The kid whipped around and snarled, "Do I _look_ like a soldier?"

"No," Ellison snapped, "but the Chanu don't read the regulations." And as Sandburg rumbled like Krakatoa he growled, "I am not explaining to your mother why I let you kill yourself."

He knew he'd been in the Army too long as soon as the cliche slipped out of his mouth. He waited for Sandburg to laugh and make a coarse joke about the bitch. It was, after all, how Ellison himself always responded.

The young man looked like he'd been smacked.

Ellison recovered from his surprise and added quickly, "I mean, for all I know, you could be her only son."

Sandburg glowered.

"Her only kid."

Sandburg steamed.

"But hey, on the other hand, maybe I'd be doing her a favor. I mean, if she really wants fleas in the house, she can buy a dog." Ellison turned and began sauntering eastward.

An excruciating minute later he was ready to call off his bluff and go back. He stopped and listened.

He heard Sandburg following him.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ellison led the way in silence for about twenty minutes before stopping.

He turned and walked back. Ignoring Sandburg's sullen face, he studied the kid's outfit and said, "I can't remember. You got any dark clothes in your pack?"

"In this climate?"

Ellison stifled a sigh of regret and took off his jacket. He was going to get eaten by bugs and scratched by the vegetation. And it was going to take time to paint his arms. He tossed the jacket to Sandburg. "Put that on."

"Why?"

"Camouflage.”

"Why?"

"Sandburg, I can't think of a politically correct way to say this. You're in Injun country."

Sandburg rolled his eyes and muttered something about John Wayne. He shoved his arms into the sleeves of the jacket. The hem came almost to his knees. Irritably he rolled up the cuffs that dripped past his fingertips. "If we run into any Chanu, can you speak the language?"

"No." Ellison dug out his sticks of brown, green and black greasepaint. "Sit down. I have to camouflage your face."

"Oh no. No way. You can just --"

Ellison put his hands on Sandburg's shoulders and pushed down. Sandburg folded accordion-style.

Ellison dropped to his knees in front of Sandburg. He planted one hand firmly on top of the curly head and used the other to paint the kid's face.

"This is assault, man!"

"Quit wiggling before I poke your eyes out."

"You really get off on pushing people around, don't you. My analyst says that's a sign of deep-seated insecurity. You're probably impotent."

"You really wanna find out, bud?"

"Uhhhh. . . It was just this idea my analyst had. . ."

"Sandburg, are you some kind of neurotic Jew like Woody Allen?"

"Did anyone ever tell you you're a pre-evolutionary throwback?"

"Yeah, my drill sergeant. But I think he had a crush on me. Now turn your head the other way."

"If anyone ever saw me like this I'd get kicked out of Students for a Democratic Society. How in hell do I get this shit off?"

"Baby wipes."

"You're joking."

"Nope. I'll never use those things on my kid's butt, that's for sure."

"You got kids? There should be a license."

"I was speaking rhetorically, Sandburg. I don't have kids."

"Oh, man, not the mouth!"

"Sorry." Ellison smeared his painted index finger over Sandburg's lips. He gathered up the long hair in one hand and began camouflaging Sandburg's neck. Absentmindedly he rubbed the curls between his fingers.

"God, this crap is probably loaded with poisonous chemicals. I'll probably get skin cancer."

"It's just greasepaint, Sandburg. Actors wear it all the time. It ain't gonna kill ya." He dropped Sandburg's hair. "Put out your hands."

Growling, Sandburg stuck out his hands as though for police cuffs. He looked down in horrified fascination at the brown-green-black pattern Ellison painted on his skin. "Oh, shit," he moaned, "I look like a GI Joe doll."

"Okay. That's it." Ellison stood up, stepped back and admired his handiwork. "Yeah, you look like a regular capitalist tool now," he said cruelly. "Think I'll take a picture and send it to your school paper."

Sandburg spluttered.

Ellison stooped over and came up with two handsful of dirt, which he unceremoniously swiped down the sides of Sandburg's pants. Sandburg yelped.

"You get the idea," Ellison grunted. He sat down and began painting his own left arm.

Apparently resigning himself to fate, Sandburg finished camouflaging his pants with dirt. He thumped to the ground to watch Ellison.

"Oh fuck," Sandburg said suddenly. "Gimme the damn paint sticks. I'll do your arms. Faster that way."

Ellison chuckled involuntarily.

"What, you think I can't be as artistic as a cretin like you?"

"Gee, when you put it that way." Ellison handed over the sticks. "

Sandburg squinted critically at Ellison's bicep. "I did take Art Appreciation, you know."

"Just don't draw the fucking Mona Lisa, okay?" Ellison started chuckling again. "What would the Students for a Democratic Society say?"

Suddenly Sandburg smiled. Ellison felt a twinge of apprehension.

"They would say," and Sandburg's smile grew broader, "they would say I should take advantage of a captive audience."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next couple of hours were very educational for James Joseph Ellison.

Ellison learned how capitalist swine lured slave laborers from slums in Rio to workcamps in western Brazil. He learned how drug trafficking benefited the oppressed peasants of Colombia. He learned how the Contras of Nicaragua had been organized and funded by the C.I.A. As it happened, Ellison already knew an awful lot about the Contras but could hardly explain how he came by his knowledge, unless he slit Sandburg's throat afterward. Which was beginning to seem like a very reasonable course of action in any event.

Desperately he tried to exhaust Sandburg by putting the kid on point. The scrawny little shit broke trail and talked with enough energy left over to light Los Angeles. When Sandburg ran out of Latin American grievances he simply hopped across the Atlantic, metaphysically speaking. Ellison learned how the Beydane tribes of Mauritania concealed modern-day black slavery from the African-American press. He learned how the Arab Moslems of northern Sudan persecuted the black Christians of southern Sudan. He learned how the Nestle Corporation conspired with the medical establishment to hook African babies on formula which their impoverished mothers could not afford. He drew the line at learning about the pan-African practice of female genital mutilation.

"Like, man, they hold these little girls down and use a razor or a piece of broken glass to cut off the labia and clitoris --"

Ellison stopped dead in his tracks. He said in a strangled voice, "Sandburg."

"-- and like they don't even use anesthesia or antibiotics or --"

"Sandburg."

"-- and then they sew them up with unsterile thread or --"

"SANDBURG!"

"Huh? What?"

"Shut up!"

Sandburg looked genuinely puzzled.

Ellison took out his canteen. He gulped water and wished for vodka.

"Look," he said finally. "You wanna talk about girls, talk about Cindy Crawford, okay?"

Sandburg rolled his eyes. "What's the matter, Rambo, the Injuns won't put out?"

"That's right, Sandburg, I gotta live vicariously." He could see Sandburg was surprised he knew a big word like 'vicariously.' "So let's hear it. What's the kinkiest thing you ever talked a girl into?"

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," Sandburg said prissily.

"So, start telling." Ellison resumed walking. Sandburg fell in beside him.

"I betcha got a girl back in Texas, Ellison. Lemme guess. She's got big blonde hair and big fake boobs and wears more makeup than Tammy Faye Bakker."

"I don't have a girlfriend, Sandburg."

"Why, are you gay?"

"You better hope I'm not."

They hiked in silence for five full minutes.

Ellison took pity. "I'm not gay, Sandburg."

"Hey, I don't care."

Oh, sure. "And I'm not from Texas. Do I sound like I'm from Texas?"

"Where you from?"

"Noplace. The Army's my home."

"Oh. Uh. I'm from Cascade, Washington. The Pacific Northwest. Ever been there?"

"No."

"God's country."

"I hear it rains there a lot."

"Well, I guess it does."

"I hear it's kind of cold even in the summer."

"Well . . ."

"What are you doing there in Cascade?"

"I'm a junior at Ranier University. I've already been accepted into the graduate program. Anthropology." That sounded very fucking practical. "What are you doing here in the jungle, Ellison?"

"Oh, grow up."

"Look, my taxes are paying your salary. The people have a right to know."

"Your taxes? More like your daddy's taxes."

Sandburg didn't say anything.

They hiked in silence for several more minutes.

Ellison said, "How do you think Reagan handled Grenada?"

Sandburg glanced up at him. Suddenly he smiled. "Wanna hear about the time I came in my girlfriend's mouth?"

"Did she spit or swallow?"

"You're getting ahead of the story, man. You're like totally destroying the Aristotelian unities."

"Did she bite your dick or puke all over you?"

"Would you just shut up and let me tell this my way?"

"I won't live that long."

"Do you want to hear this story or not?"

"All right! All right!"

"Okay, see, her name was Claudette and I met her at an open-mike poetry reading --"

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For at least an hour Sandburg cheerfully and uninhibitedly described his couplings.

And his triplings, and his quadruplings, not to mention his participation in out-and-out orgies involving illicit drugs, bondage and discipline, girls in lacy lingerie, and large amounts of whipped cream.

Ellison wondered how his own life had gone so wrong.

The really embarrassing part was that the teenager obviously took it for granted that Ellison, a career soldier, was intimately familiar with the lurid sexual practices of every nation. In reality, Ellison's encounters with prostitutes never deviated from the boring basics.

Not that he couldn't remember what good sex felt like. Before Officer Candidate School, before Ranger School, before the top secret clearance and the assignment to covert ops -- he'd had girlfriends. Girls he'd actually taken out in public. Introduced around. And spent whole nights with. Weekends, even. Girls who’d made love passionately and generously. Girls utterly unlike the sullen whores he made do with these days. Utterly unlike the sort of woman he planned to marry.

Ellison stopped that train of thought dead in its tracks. He'd made a plan and he planned to stick to it. He intended to be a married man within three days and that meant a wife who wanted nothing from him but money and American citizenship.

His marriage would probably be a helluva lot more successful than his parents'.

"Earth to Ellison, come in, Ellison."

Ellison blinked and said, "What?"

"So, have you ever done it with one of the Chanu?"

"No, I'd rather not have an Article 15 in my file, thanks."

"What's the problem? Some kind of Army rule about it?"

"A camp rule. Yeah. Not that that would stop anyone." Ellison snorted. "The Chanu think we're ugly. And they think we stink. You couldn't bribe a Chanu woman to fuck one of us. Believe me, I know guys who've tried."

"Nobody would, like, actually, you know...."

"The camp commander said she'd turn over anyone who got accused of rape." Ellison shook his head and said solemnly, "This is what happens when you let women in the military. The end of esprit de corps."

Sandburg opened his mouth and took a deep breath. He snapped his mouth shut again. He scowled at Ellison.

Ellison grinned.

"If you could actually get it up, you prick, I might tell you where the action is in Panama City. You speak any Spanish?"

Ellison said in Spanish, "Yes, but the locals always pretend they can't understand me. They don't want North American soldiers in their country."

Sandburg shot him a peculiar glance. After a moment he said, "I doubt it's got anything to do with you being a soldier. You're speaking Castilian."

"What?"

"Oh, right."

"What the fuck is --"

"Are you shittin' me?" Sandburg studied him curiously. "Upper-class Spanish. What the rich people speak in Spain."

"Oh," Ellison said blankly.

"Where'd you learn Castilian? And don't tell me the Army. Or public school."

Ellison felt his face getting hot. He was glad for the camouflage paint.

Sandburg said casually, "When did you enlist?"

"Uh, 1975." Ellison didn't understand the abrupt change in subject but was happy to go along with it.

"Sounds like you joined right out of high school."

"Yeah."

"So why's a rich kid run away from home to join the Army?"

Ellison stopped walking. He stooped over to re-tie his boot. He said calmly, "I wouldn't know, Sandburg."

Sandburg said, "Uh huh," and walked past.

Ellison paused a moment. He straightened, leaned forward and grabbed Sandburg's arm. "Wait a sec --"

Sandburg turned.

"Do you hear --"

Sandburg looked puzzled.

Ellison said lamely, "You don't hear . . ."

Now Sandburg looked uneasy. He glanced around.

"I thought I heard someone speaking Chanu."

"I thought you didn't know the language."

"I don't have to understand it to hear it."

Ellison thought: _I'm imagining things again._

"I don't hear anything," Sandburg said, low-voiced.

Ellison thought: _I am not goddamn imagining things._

Ellison lowered himself to the ground. Without a word Sandburg dropped down beside him.

Ellison strained to hear. Now he heard nothing. Nothing but the insects and birds and frogs.

He faltered, "I -- I guess --"

Sandburg pressed against Ellison and whispered, "What is it?"

Ellison shuddered.

Footsteps. He heard footsteps.

He could count twelve people. He could guess their weight by the force of their steps. He could sort the men's steps from the women's. He could sort the women's steps from the girl's. One girl.

The girl stopped walking.

The girl said to him, _Come here._

Ellison bolted to his feet.

"Ellison!"

He lurched eastward and stumbled.

Sandburg jumped up and grabbed him by the arm. "What? What is it?"

"I have to get out of here."

Sandburg recovered in seconds. "No problem, man."

"I have to get out of here."

"No problem," Sandburg repeated soothingly. He began maneuvering Ellison forward.

_Come here._

(but he didn't know a word of Chanu)

"Ellison?"

_Come here._

"Ellison!"

He wasn't superstitious. He didn't believe in voodoo or black magic or whatever the fuck was yanking him along like a dog on a leash. He didn't believe. He didn't believe.

He didn't believe he had started walking westward.

Sandburg barreled around him. He planted his hands flat against Ellison's chest and pushed.

Sandburg hissed, "Stop."

Ellison stopped.

The girl said _Come here._

Ellison moved forward.

"Back up!"

Ellison broke out in a clammy sweat. He took a step back. The invisible choke chain tightened around his neck.

"Ellison! Breathe goddammit! Ellison! Listen to me! Will you _listen_ to me?"

Ellison gasped, "Yes."

His throat closed. His vision darkened. His fingers went cold and numb.

He felt the rifle fall from his hands.

It was falling.

He was falling.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Ellison. Ellison. Come on back, man. Come on. Wake up. Ellison . . . " 

Ellison realized Sandburg had been talking to him for a long time.

He roused and shook himself. He blinked and found himself looking smack into Sandburg's face. He was lying down and the guy was crouched over him.

Ellison started to speak and felt something propped between his teeth and pinning down his tongue. He spat out a stick.

"God," Sandburg said. Relief in his voice, ebbing anxiety in his face. "You shoulda warned me."

"Uh wha?" Ellison croaked. He sat up and tugged his canteen off his web belt.

"You should've told me you had epilepsy."

Ellison gagged on the mouthful of water he'd been in the act of swallowing. Sandburg thumped his back. Ellison shoved him away. "What the fuck are you talking about!"

Sandburg sat back on his heels. He looked surprised. Ellison scrambled up unsteadily and loomed over the slighter man in a deliberate attempt to terrify.

Sandburg said calmly, "I think you had some kind of a seizure."

Ellison balled his fists and stared furiously at Sandburg. When the guy didn't get a scared look, Ellison jerked around. He saw his weapon and pack and snatched them up. Behind him he heard Sandburg getting to his feet.

"I'm not out to get you fired. But you should see a doctor."

"Shut the fuck up."

"No, I'm not gonna shut the fuck up. You're playing with guns when you’ve got a serious medical problem."

Ellison wheeled around. Imagined smashing his fist into Sandburg's face.

Imagined Sandburg stealing the gear off his unconscious body and taking off.

Ellison took a deep breath.

"Thanks," he said.

Sandburg eyed him. Slowly he relaxed his defensive posture.

The kid had anticipated Ellison's reaction. And still he'd spoken the unpalatable truth.

Hastily Ellison turned and pulled out his GPS and map. He made a show of plotting their location on the grid.

Sandburg said quietly, "I guess my bedside manner sucks."

Ellison shrugged. He didn't turn around. He said, "I dunno, is that what the girls say?"

Several seconds' silence, then a snort of laughter.

Ellison started walking away. He heard Sandburg pick up his pack and follow.

"Hey Ellison."

"What."

"Ya really wanna know what the girls say about me? 'Cause I wouldn't wanna give you an inferiority complex."

"Shit, Sandburg. I don't care what the broads write about you next to the payphone."

"Excuse me, but I bang classy broads. They write iambic pentameter about me and submit it for publication."

"Yeah, the National Inquirer --"

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late. 

The jungle canopy prevented him from seeing the actual sunset or even the colors it cast across the sky. His watch told him, though, that sunset was in progress. That, and the gathering shadows.

Irving had expected him back no later than sunset.

Ellison anchored Sandburg with a hand to the young man's arm. "Watch out. It's around here. The sinkhole Jackson fell into."

Sandburg glanced about and said, "Well, looks like they came and got your guys."

"Yeah. Looks like."

Head down, still holding fast to Sandburg, Ellison began quartering the area. Sandburg said, "Whatcha looking for?"

Ellison shrugged.

After a moment Sandburg said, "Hey, they had guns, right?"

"Right."

"I mean, they're Army guys, they can take care of themselves. Right?"

Ellison thought: _Except one of them has a broken leg. And the other is a city boy who's afraid of the woods._

Ellison said, "Right."

He continued to methodically sweep the ground with his eyes for shell casings, for signs of a struggle. He towed Sandburg along and Sandburg did not resist.

Sandburg said gently, "So I'm sure they're okay."

"Right." Ellison prowled to and fro.

And there, floating several feet above the ground, a glimmer of white. Ellison moved toward it. A piece of paper skewered to a stick hammered into the dirt. He pulled it off and brought it up to his face.

He read it aloud for Sandburg's benefit: "Captain Ellison, in case you come back this way, it's 1400 and we're leaving with the stretcher party. Jackson's doing fine. We thought you'd be back by now. See you in camp. Sergeant Sean Donnelly."

Ellison felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders uncoiling. Suddenly he realized exactly how tightly he'd been gripping Sandburg. Self-consciously he relaxed his fingers.

Sandburg chuckled. "My arm was starting to go numb there."

"Sorry." But he did not let go of the kid.

"Getting dark. Should we just make camp?"

And suddenly it occurred to Ellison --

He'd seen Sandburg's sleeping bag and rain tarp and mosquito netting hours ago, and only now did the significance whack him over the head like a two-by-four.

"You've been camping out. Overnight."

"Uh huh."

Ellison turned his head and stared disbelievingly at Sandburg. "You've been -- Sleeping out here at night. Alone. No weapons."

"Uh huh," Sandburg said cheerfully.

Ellison's fingers tightened around Sandburg's arm once more. He growled, "Are you nuts?"

"Hey, nothing happened."

"It's a fuckin' miracle nothing happened!"

An irrational wave of anger and fright swamped Ellison. He jerked Sandburg around and shook him furiously.

"Hey, cut it out, man!" The teenager tried to wrench away. "You're not my fuckin' father! Shit! If my mom doesn't care what the fuck is it to you?"

Ellison bit back a surely unforgivable remark about Sandburg's mother. Stupid cunt, why didn't she take better care of Sandburg? What was with all these stupid cunts like Sandburg's mother --

Ellison let go of Sandburg.

Yes, and what was with all these stupid bastards like Jim Ellison who married stupid cunts.

Sandburg jumped back a few feet. He bounced from one foot to the other.

Ellison said, "I'm sorry. I've got no business -- I'm sorry." He held out his hands in a gesture of peace. "You're right. I'm not your father. I've got no business putting my hands on you."

"That's for damn sure!"

Any second now, Ellison thought desperately, any second Sandburg would wheel around and run away. He could hear Sandburg shifting and breathing like a spooked colt. Any second Sandburg would run, and Ellison would never be able to track him down in the dark.

Jesus Christ, what if he ran right into the pit?

"Sandburg. Come on back to camp with me. Please. Swear I won't touch you again."

Sandburg repeated in a thick voice, "That's for damn sure, you stupid asshole."

"You're right. I'm an asshole. I'm --"

Ellison thought: _I'm just like my old man. ___

But that was too awful a thought, and Ellison slammed it aside.

"Sandburg. It's not safe out here at night. I've got a gun and I'm afraid to stay out here at night. Just come on back with me. Okay? Please?"

In the dusk, it was easier to hear Sandburg than see him. He heard Sandburg's breathing slow. Heard the kid stop pawing the ground.

Ellison didn't sigh in relief. He forced himself to turn his back on Sandburg and walk away.

He walked.

He heard no steps but his own.

Ellison slowed.

Ellison stopped.

Irving was waiting.

He stood.

He stood.

He began to turn around.

And he heard Sandburg following him again.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was very late. 

They had walked in silence, and more and more slowly, for thirty minutes. Ellison found his night vision adequate but behind him he heard Sandburg stumbling and falling further behind. So Ellison walked more and more slowly, until he stopped because Sandburg's footsteps had stopped.

The young man said curtly, "You got a flashlight?"

Ellison turned. "No. I was supposed to be back by sundown."

Sandburg swung his pack off his back and rummaged inside it. He produced a flashlight.

Ellison said urgently. "Wait. Don't turn it on. Please." He stepped carefully toward the young man and extended his hand.

Sandburg hesitated. Silently he handed the flashlight over.

Ellison tore a wide strip off the hem of his brown T-shirt. He wrapped and knotted it over the top of the flashlight and handed it back to Sandburg. "Now you can turn it on."

Sandburg snapped on the flashlight, looked at the feeble glow it cast through the fabric, and said peevishly, "It's practically useless this way."

"Exactly. So no one can see us coming for miles."

"Who are you so scared of, Rambo?" Sandburg sneered.

Ellison said steadily, "The soldiers of this country, mostly. And the police, when they come out this far. The drug traffickers. The guerrillas. The Indians. The animals. And -- friendly fire."

Sandburg was silent a moment. He barked a laugh.

"They call this place the Wild Wild West,” Ellison said wryly.

The teenager looked blankly at him.

"It was a TV show." Ellison felt ready for Social Security.

"What the hell's friendly fire?" Sandburg asked suddenly.

Ellison hesitated. "I was supposed to get back no later than sunset. And now it's night. And we're outside. I didn't bother finding out tonight's sign and countersign. Because I thought I'd be back by mid-afternoon."

Sandburg asked slowly, "You mean when you show up at your own camp tonight. . . they'll shoot at you?"

"No. Not if I handle things right. It'll be okay."

Sandburg looked him directly in the face for the first time in a half-hour.

"It'll be okay," Ellison repeated.

Clearly it did not occur to the civilian that he, too, might come under fire, and for that, Ellison was grateful.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was very fucking late. 

Ellison dropped to his knees and stretched out flat on the ground. A moment later, Sandburg lowered himself to Ellison’s side.

Ellison spoke very quietly. "The camp is about 30 yards in that direction." He pointed.

"Don't see anything," Sandburg murmured. "Don't hear anything."

"It's there. It's always like that at night."

"Maybe they had to leave. Like you were saying."

"No. I know the mobilization plan. They couldn't clear out in less than 18 hours. We'd be seeing lights and hearing helicopters."

"Maybe . . . maybe the Chanu killed them all."

Ellison said simply, "No."

Sandburg turned his head and looked at him. He said, not argumentatively, "Maybe."

"No.”

Sandburg paused and said, "All right." He paused again. "What's the plan?"

Ellison rose to a crouch. He took off his dogtags. He rummaged through the pockets of his trousers until he found his Army ID card. He held out the card and the chain to Sandburg. Puzzled, the kid took them and turned them around in his hands, examining them by flashlight.

Ellison dug into his cargo pockets again and took out a pair of fully loaded magazines he kept taped together, end-to-end. He inserted one into the rifle. As quietly as possible he pulled back the bolt of the rifle and slowly rode it forward to chamber a round.

He switched the weapon over to fully automatic mode. He turned off the safety. He held out the rifle to Sandburg.

Startled, Sandburg pushed the rifle away.

"It's ready to go. Just pull and hold the trigger."

Sandburg shook his head.

Ellison misunderstood. "You can't possibly miss. It's fully automatic now." He held out the weapon again. "Just sweep back and forth. When the first clip's empty, pull it out, turn it upside down and push the second clip in."

Sandburg determinedly pushed the rifle away again.

Ellison understood.

"Sandburg. Take it. If you have to spend the night out here, you'll need a weapon."

"What's going on, Ellison?"

"I'm going ahead. If I don't come back for you, wait here till sunrise. Then approach the camp. Wear my jacket. Hold up my card and dogtags."

"Why wouldn't you --"

"Stay put till I come back. Or until sunrise."

Sandburg said, "You're not my father. Remember?"

"What's your point?"

"I'm coming along."

"You're staying put."

"I won't use your damn gun, Ellison."

"You will if you have to."

"I won't."

Ellison glared.

Sandburg glared.

Ellison looked away first.

He took the rifle out of automatic mode. He thumbed on the safety. He slung the weapon over his back.

He said, "Turn off that flashlight."

He said, "Let's go."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

How was he supposed to leave a pacifist alone in the woods at night? 

How was he supposed to pull off a passage-of-lines with a pacifist beside him?

Behind him, to be accurate. It seemed to Ellison that Sandburg had extremely poor night vision. He was bumbling and stumbling without the flashlight, making too much noise, probably hurting himself.

Ellison stopped and waited for Sandburg to catch up.

He stood, his back to Sandburg, and hesitated before saying, "You can hold onto my shirt."

He waited.

He felt Sandburg's knuckles graze his back. Felt the fabric of his shirt bunch up in Sandburg's fist.

Ellison took a step forward. Sandburg stumbled into him.

Ellison froze.

Sandburg whispered, "What?"

"English."

"Oh, man," Sandburg whispered despairingly. "This is not the time."

"I heard English," Ellison said stubbornly.

"You're having another attack, Ellison."

"No. No."

Sandburg groaned. His head dropped forward and landed with a thunk between Ellison's shoulders.

Ellison heard a female voice -- a girl's voice -- say, "Halt."

And then she said, "Captain Kirk?"

Ellison thought furiously. He didn't know a Captain Kirk. He --

And a boy's voice said, "Beam me up, Scotty."

They both chuckled.

The girl said, "I've never seen that show."

The boy said, "Yeah, the old farts love it. Anything happening?"

"Nah." Pause. "Too bad about Captain Ellison."

"Yeah. He was cool. For an officer, I mean."

"Yeah. Well, I'm outta here. 'Night."

" 'Night."

And silence.

And Sandburg was gripping his arms, shaking him, whispering frantically, "Will you please-please-please wake up?"

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ellison pushed Sandburg to the ground and murmured, "Take off your backpack. Take everything out of your pockets but your passport, your visa and your student ID." 

Sandburg wriggled out the straps of his backpack frame. He cleaned out his pockets and stuffed the debris into the pack.

"I need my jacket back. And my card and tags."

"You got 'em."

And he had them.

Ellison pulled on the jacket. He kept his ID in his hand.

He felt charged with hope.

He knew he and Sandburg didn't have a cakewalk ahead of them. So much depended on the sentry's nerve. But . . . he hoped.

It occurred to Ellison that he'd heard an awful lot of sermons on faith and none on hope.

He bent over Sandburg again and murmured, "Five minutes. I'll be back in five minutes."

"That's all you get."

"That's all I need." Ellison imitated a German accent. "I'll be back."

He crawled away with the sound of Sandburg's surprised chuckle in his ears.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rifle slung upside-down across his back. Hands clasped loosely over his head. ID card in the palm of one hand. Dogtags wedged between his fingers. 

Ellison rose to his feet and began walking slowly toward the western gate of the camp. He made no attempt to walk silently.

He stepped into the clear-cut area ringing the camp.

He forced himself to keep walking.

He could see the sentry's rifle edging around the protective wall of sandbags piled next to the gate. Exchanging the sign and countersign with a fellow sentry was one thing. Exchanging them with a big man walking out of the jungle at night. . .

"Halt."

Ellison halted. Took a breath and waited. Either the kid would ask for the countersign, or. . . he'd just panic and shoot.

The sentry said, "Captain Kirk?"

Ellison said, "Beam me up, Scotty."

A click.

Ellison felt himself being scrutinized in the red glow of a hooded flashlight.

"Captain Ellison!"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Private Harris, sir." The sentry stood up and hooked the flashlight onto his belt. "We thought -- "

"I have someone with me," Ellison interrupted. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "A civilian, a US citizen. A hiker. He was lost. I want to bring him in."

The boy's face hardened in an instant. He swept his rifle up to his shoulder.

Ellison said, "I'm not a hostage. I'm not acting under duress." He did not move or look aside or even blink. He did nothing the kid might misinterpret as an appeal for help.

Harris walked down the slope and around Ellison. He interposed his body between the captain and the jungle.

"Are you a hostage, sir?"

"No. Guy's a US citizen. A civilian. He'll die out there."

Strange to be pleading with a private. Stranger still to be pleading for Sandburg.

Harris paused. He scrutinized Ellison's face.

He said deliberately, "Bring him in, sir."

Ellison turned and walked back into the jungle.

Sandburg was lying exactly where he had left him. Ellison tugged him upright. He pulled Sandburg as close as a lover and murmured, "I am bringing you in now. Be cool. Cooperate. We could still die."

Sandburg swallowed and nodded.

"Walk out ahead of me. Very slowly. Hands on your head."

Sandburg nodded again.

Ellison released him and pushed him gently in the sentry's direction.

Sandburg clasped his hands over his head and walked slowly forward. Ellison followed several yards behind and to one side.

When they entered the beam of Harris' light the sentry said tensely, "Halt."

Both men obeyed.

"You. Civilian. Turn around very slowly. Keep turning. Keep turning. All the way around. Stop." Pause. "Civilian. On your knees."

Sandburg knelt down.

"Captain Ellison. Take off your belt. Tie his wrists together. Do not get in my line of fire."

Ellison removed the belt of his camouflage trousers. He walked up behind Sandburg and reached for the clasped hands. He pulled them down and behind Sandburg's back.

Sandburg was shaking.

Ellison murmured, "Keep it together, kid." He squeezed Sandburg's hands reassuringly between his own. After a moment, Sandburg nodded.

Ellison wound his belt around the man's wrists and knotted the ends together. He stepped back and aside.

"Captain Ellison. Come here. Do not get in my line of fire."

Ellison silently obeyed.

"You. Civilian. Come here."

Slowly Sandburg rose to his feet and walked forward. He walked until he was about twelve feet from the muzzle of the sentry's rifle.

The sentry barked, "Halt."

Sandburg stopped instantly.

"On the ground, face down, spread your legs, do it now now now!"

Sandburg hit the dirt.

Harris edged toward Sandburg. He jammed the muzzle of his rifle against Sandburg's skull. "Captain Ellison. Search him."

Wordlessly Ellison approached and hunkered next to Sandburg. He pushed his large hand into each of Sandburg's back pockets and turned them inside-out. The private scrutinized each piece of ID produced. Ellison ran his hands up Sandburg's arms and down his back. Over his buttocks, between his thighs, down his legs. He rolled Sandburg over. Sandburg's hair completely obscured his face and Ellison was glad. He ran his hands up Sandburg's arms, down his chest and around his waist. Over his crotch, between his thighs, down his legs. Ellison exhaled; he didn't remember when he'd started holding his breath.

Ellison felt anxious and embarrassed and he did not understand why. He'd frisked Sandburg before. Not quite like this, true, but he'd body-searched other men before, yes, and women too. Shit, in his Latin American service, he'd strip-searched guerrillas and done body cavity searches on drug couriers. So what the fuck was his problem at this particular moment?

"Captain Ellison. Stand up. Move back."

Ellison remained still for a moment.

He stood up. He moved back.

He had known the sentry suspected a hostage situation. He had known the sentry was looking for a signal to kill Sandburg. And he had just provided one. A nervous expression.

Ellison took a deep breath. He flexed his knees and rolled his weight forward from heels to toes. He wasn't a sprinter but it was only a few feet. He did not calculate the odds of getting shot en route. If he did that he'd never move at all.

The sentry stepped away from Sandburg. "You. Civilian. On your feet."

Ellison sank back onto his bootheels.

Sandburg didn't react for a few seconds. Then he rolled over and awkwardly sat up. Then he struggled upright.

Harris said, "What are your orders, sir? Sir?"

"He has a pack." Ellison pointed in its direction. "Check it. Bring it to my quarters at the end of your shift."

"Yes, sir."

"Good job, Private."

"Thank you, sir."

"Jackson and Donnelly --"

"They medivaced Specialist Jackson to Panama City, sir. Sergeant Donnelly went along with him."

"Thanks." Ellison unslung his rifle from across his back. He leveled it at Sandburg and said, "You. Civilian. Walk this way." He gestured inside the gate with the rifle.

Sandburg walked with extraordinary care, like a drunk. As soon as they were beyond the glow of the sentry's light Ellison moved in and grabbed hold of Sandburg's arm. Sandburg's knees buckled. He half-fell and was half-lowered to the ground by Ellison.

Ellison crouched beside him. He pushed the long hair aside. Sandburg's face glimmered dead white in the darkness.

Ellison gently tapped the man's cheek several times with two fingers. "Hey. Hey there. Sandburg. You with me? Blair?"

After a moment Sandburg raised his eyes to Ellison's. "Yuh -- yeah. Yeah."

"You want a drink of water?"

"Yeah. Yeah."

Ellison slung his rifle over his shoulder and unhooked a canteen from his belt. He unscrewed the cap. He put the canteen to Sandburg's mouth and used his other hand to cup the back of the man's tilted head.

Sandburg drank.

Ellison said, "Sorry."

He would have paid money for an outraged retort. Sandburg merely turned his head aside to indicate that he was finished drinking.

Ellison slid his hand off Sandburg's head. He capped the canteen and hooked it on his belt again.

After a moment Sandburg croaked, "That was one heck of a tribal ritual."

Ellison smiled at him.

Sandburg hesitated. He smiled weakly back.

Suddenly Ellison recollected himself. "Okay, let's move," he said briskly. He slid an arm around Sandburg, and heaved him upright.

"Um. . .?" Sandburg turned and jerked his bound hands. Ellison unknotted and unwound the belt. He put it back on as Sandburg rubbed the grooves around his wrists. Ellison jerked his eyes guiltily away from the indentations and said, "I have to report in. It'll take about fifteen minutes. And then we can get cleaned up and get some sleep. Okay?"

Sandburg nodded.

The administrative center of the camp was eerily still. They did not pass even one other person. Anxious as he was, Ellison walked slowly to accommodate Sandburg. The kid held onto Ellison's arm and shuffled along uncertainly, muttering, "I don't know what vitamins you take but I'm gonna start taking 'em too. How can you see where you're going?"

"It's not that dark, Sandburg." Ellison kept the impatience out of his voice.

But he was so very fucking late.

The headquarters building was as desolate as blackout shades could make it appear. Ellison guided his companion up the steps and through the door. In the common area he broke away from Sandburg and jogged down the dim hallway.

He almost overshot the open door to Irving's office. He had to dig the toes of his jungle boots into the wooden floor to halt his momentum.

By the light of a single battery-operated lamp he saw Irving hunched over in her chair. Her elbows were propped on the desk and her head was gripped between her fists. As his footsteps stopped in the doorway she raised her eyes.

Ellison felt a sudden surge of embarrassment. It occurred to him what he must look and smell like, sweaty and filthy as he was. Irving had never seen him look anything less than his militarily correct best and he was male enough to be mortified. He stepped backwards into the hallway.

Irving stood up.

She walked around her desk and across her office. Walked into the hallway. Stopped in front of him.

She tilted her head back. He looked down.

She said, "You're all right."

He said, "Yes."

Irving hesitated.

She turned around. Walked back into her office. Walked back around her desk. Sat back down.

Ellison hesitated.

He stepped inside. Crossed the room. Stopped in front of the desk. Got to attention. Saluted.

"Welcome back, Captain."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Report."

"Yes, ma'am."

So quickly passed the most intimate moment of his life.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He found Sandburg sprawled back in a chair in the common area. He thought the kid was asleep, but Sandburg sat up as Ellison stooped over him. 

Sandburg pushed his hair back. "Where to, Kemosabi?"

Ellison handed him a hooded flashlight he'd lifted from an empty office. "My quarters, Tonto. To get some shower gear. You can borrow my stuff. I'll even give you some of my baby wipes."

Privately, Ellison was not looking forward to hitting the showers with Sandburg. In his military mind, showering with a fellow soldier was prosaic, showering with a civilian was pornographic. He supposed he could close his eyes and think of England.

Sandburg got to his feet and stretched. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the hallway and regarded Ellison speculatively. "What was that all about?"

"What," Ellison said absently.

"You. Her."

Ellison rapidly came alert. He assured himself that Sandburg could not have understood whatever he had seen or overheard. The punk knew nothing of military culture. Still, Ellison felt embarrassed and annoyed. He put on his most forbidding face, the one that turned junior soldiers into pillars of salt.

He should have known it would have no effect on Sandburg. The long-haired hippie freak merely grinned conspiratorially. "You gotta speak up, man."

Ellison sputtered and finally got out, "Mind your own business, Sandburg." He turned around and marched out.

He heard Sandburg sauntering after him and chuckling infuriatingly.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ellison lay on a sleeping bag on the floor in front of his cot, upon which Sandburg slept. 

After perfunctorily welcoming Ellison back from the dead, his roommates had glued their eyes on his traveling companion. Ellison got the feeling Sandburg looked like the entire Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition to these desperate men. However -- as he had surmised -- none of them was desperate enough to try climbing over 200 pounds of Army Ranger to reach him.

Sandburg had fallen asleep the second he'd hit the cot.

The roomies had dropped off into disgruntled dozes.

Ellison lay awake.

He had some heavy-duty thinking to do. Big Mouth had put too many ideas into his head for comfort.

No more weaving around his medical problems. What Sandburg had said kept replaying in his mind. Seizures. Scared the shit out of him. But he was going deal with it. Before he got someone killed. Before he got himself killed. What if he hadn't run into Sandburg this afternoon? He'd've wandered off into the jungle following an auditory hallucination.

When he got back from Peru he'd put in for some leave. Go back to the States. See a civilian doctor. He'd use a phony name and pay cash. Buy enough medication for a year and hide it in a vitamin bottle. Epilepsy was like diabetes, wasn't it? Controllable. Nothing to sweat about.

And as for Problem Number 2. Or Situation Number 2. He was not going to make a marriage of convenience. He didn't care if people called him gay. Well, he cared, but he'd live with it. He was not going to marry some twat to appease a promotion board. It was time to stand up to Mother Army.

Which brought him to Situation 2A. Irving. He couldn't leave for Peru without reaching an understanding with her. Except he couldn't think how to do that.

He needed props. Roses, chocolates. As if any were to be had in camp.

Why not take Sandburg's advice? He was smart. A grad student, wasn't he? And a lady killer, if half his stories were to be believed.

Speak up.

He could do that.

If he could jump out of airplanes, he could speak up.

Irving's kids wouldn't be happy to see Mom with a white man. Her ex-husband might use that as an excuse to curtail her visitation rights. Even racially tolerant kids would get uptight about the age difference between himself and Irving. Yeah, he was concerned about Irving's kids. But not half as concerned as he was about Irving's rank. Colonels and captains didn't fraternize. Not unless they wanted dishonorable discharges. Marriage conferred legal protection but not absolution. He and Irving would be on the shit list for the rest of their careers.

Maybe Irving would retire. As an openly declared atheist she must know she'd never make general. She must have pretended to be Christian for years to have made it as far as she had.

Maybe she was ready to give it all up. Live off her pension. Live off his salary and save her pension, that was fine by him. Go anywhere and do anything she wanted in his absences. He wouldn't interfere.

And he'd never be alone again. Whatever time or distance came between them, he'd never really be alone. Not if somewhere in the world there was someone who understood and accepted him. And who but another member of his tribe would?

So tomorrow he'd . . . speak up.

When his stomach quit churning he fell asleep.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ellison's section leader conducted Physical Training at oh-four-thirty in a laughable attempt to beat the heat. Ellison let Sandburg lie and went to P.T. He ducked back into the hut afterwards to pick up his shower gear. Oh-five-fifteen and Sandburg was still out cold. Ellison glared meaningfully at his roommates and went off to wash up. He jogged back to the hut and dressed. The roomies were gone. Oh-six-hundred and Sandburg was still asleep. Worriedly, Ellison shook his shoulder. 

"Urmph?"

"Sandburg. Wake up."

"Hrrmph?"

"Sandburg."

The trumpet blast of reveille rolled through the camp. Sandburg catapulted out of the cot, slipped, and fell on his butt at Ellison's feet. He looked up incredulously at the six-foot-two-in-his-boots Ellison. He looked around the starkly organized and immaculate hut. He wrapped his arms around his head and moaned, "There's no place like home."

"Up an' at 'em, Sandburg. Villages to pillage, babies to burn." Ellison dragged the kid upright. Bewilderedly he bent over to inspect a glint of gold in the thick dark chest hair. Holy Mary Mother of God, the guy had a nipple ring. Ellison stared speechlessly at it.

Reveille was succeeded by a booming broadcast of "The Star Spangled Banner." Sandburg whimpered.

Ellison tore his eyes away from the gold hoop and stuttered, "Get dressed."

Sandburg sat down on the cot, pushed his hair back from his face and said piteously, "I can't take all this fuel-injected patriotism, man."

"Your tax dollars at work, Sandburg. Now put something on and I'll take you to the latrine and the showers. Get your ass in gear, the messhall closes at oh-seven-hundred."

Sandburg dragged on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and dug his shower accouterments out of his backpack. He muttered, "I will never, ever bitch about the dorms again."

"Wait a sec." Ellison rummaged in his locker and pulled out an extra camouflage cap. "Here." He jammed the cap on Sandburg's head and stuffed the curly hair up under it.

Sandburg demanded wearily, "How come?"

"So people don't stare at you."

"What if I like being stared at?"

"Sandburg, a lot of people in this camp are looking for a good man, and not all of them are women."

Sandburg appeared to be decoding this remark even as he and Ellison left the hut.

Foot traffic was brisk around camp at this hour. People reporting for duty. Other people going to or from physical training. Still other people walking to the messhall or hitting the communal showers in assigned shifts. Two casually-dressed women, towels around their shoulders and waterproof satchels in hand, strolled past Ellison and Sandburg. Ellison saluted; he knew them by sight, a major in her mid-thirties, a captain in her late twenties. The women's gazes drifted disinterestedly over the teenager at Ellison's side. The major made eye contact with Ellison, grinned, tipped her head back and began whistling a tune. Ellison was glad a kid of Sandburg's age and tastes wouldn't recognize it.

_"Come a little bit closer, You're my kind of man, So big and so strong . . ."_

Ellison smiled politely and kept walking. The women burst out laughing and sauntered on in the opposite direction. When they should have been out of earshot he heard the captain say, "He doesn't talk much, does he," and he heard the major say, "Aw, he's probably a fucking idiot, but with a bod like that who needs brains?" and both women laughed again.

Ellison consciously unclenched his jaw. He realized he had stopped walking, and he began striding toward the male facilities again.

Sandburg asked, "Did I miss something?"

"No," Ellison said curtly.

Sandburg started to say something and apparently thought better of it.

They completed the rest of the walk in silence.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"That food wasn't bad," Sandburg allowed generously. "I didn't know there were cooks in the Army. And soldiers who did laundry. Stuff like that." 

"Civilian contractors are greedy fucks but not greedy enough to come here," Ellison said dryly, encompassing the entire jungle in a gesture. He jumped the steps into the hut and proceeded directly to his locker. He took out several armfuls of gear and clothing which he spread out on his cot.

Sandburg watched curiously.

Ellison opened and emptied the trunk at the foot of the cot. He unfolded his duffel bag.

"What's up?"

"I'm outta here. New assignment."

"You mean if I'd waited just one more day I'd've made it to the ruins?"

"Uh huh."

"Crap," Sandburg said philosophically.

Ellison rolled his clothing into small tight tubes that he inserted precisely into his duffel bag.

"So where ya going?"

Ellison said flippantly, "Why, ya wanna write?"

Sandburg paused just a fraction of a second too long before laughing.

Ellison felt embarrassed and flattered and burdened all at once. Had he managed to become a father figure after all? Well, big brother -- there weren't that many years between them.

He said awkwardly, "I don't think I can get mail. Where I'm going."

Sandburg laughed again. "I should file a Freedom of Information Act on you, man."

Genially, Ellison slugged Sandburg in the shoulder. Too late he remembered he probably outweighed the scrawny shit by fifty pounds. Sandburg went staggering into one of the roomies' cots.

Ellison gave him a hand up and said gruffly, "Sorry."

Sandburg grinned wryly and rubbed his shoulder.

Ellison filled every available inch of the duffel and began stuffing his backpack. Sandburg tried picking up the duffel. He got it about six inches off the floor before dropping it.

Sandburg looked wordlessly at Ellison and set about re-arranging the contents of his own backpack.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At headquarters, Ellison pushed Sandburg into a seat in the common area. He dumped his backpack and duffel onto the floor by the kid's feet. "Stay here. I gotta check out of this place. And find out what I'm supposed to do with you." 

Sandburg looked around. Recognition dawned in his face and he started grinning. "Your lady soldier works here."

"There are no lady soldiers, Sandburg. Just soldiers."

Sandburg clutched at his chest. "Good God. Did you just make a politically correct statement?"

"Sit down and shut up. Stare at your navel or something."

Ellison went down the hall to Finance and Personnel. Happily he was not outprocessed by the same clerk who'd sold him information on Irving. As he had supposed, outprocessing was a one-stop, relatively brief process in this tiny camp. But as tedious and invasive as anywhere else.

"Okay, sir, nearly done," the clerk said placatingly. She studied his Finance file. "Uh, you want this monthly allotment to continue to Sally, ah --"

"Yes," he interrupted curtly. He ignored her frankly curious tone. No bets were going to be collected on his personal life. He wondered what sort of expression would cross the clerk's face if he said, "She’s my father's housekeeper."

"Okay, sir, last item." She pushed another form across the desk. "Oh, and Captain Xhao wanted to see you after you got finished here."

Ellison nodded. He glanced at the form. Declaration of Residency for Local Taxation. His "home" was nothing more than a mail drop in a state that didn't tax. He filled out the form and signed his name. He tore off his copy and handed the original back to the clerk. He picked up all his carbon copies and rolled them into a tube which he stuck in his cargo pocket.

"Uh, Captain?" The clerk waved the form. "You put down Washington State. That's not your home of record. Unless something's changed? Sir?"

"No," Ellison said. "Nothing's changed. Give me a clean form."

"Okay, sir. So who's the honey in Washington?"

Ellison scowled horribly. The clerk flung her hands up in a gesture of surrender. Ellison scribbled on the form, tore off his copy and hastily departed.

Ellison ducked into Xhao's office with as little ceremony as before. He helped himself uninvited to the coffee thermos he spotted on a filing cabinet. He felt badly in need of a jolt of caffeine.

"What's the matter, Ellison, ya think I don't have enough to do?" Xhao grumped. "I've been burning up the wires all morning about your civilian."

"He's not my civilian," Ellison protested half-heartedly as he poured himself a styrofoam cupful.

Xhao talked right over him. "So here's the deal. You're taking him back to the capital with you today. Try to deliver him to the US Embassy. But if the little fucker runs just let him go."

"Don't worry," Ellison said, "he's not getting away from me."

"I'd rather deal with the Chanu than the Embassy. Oh yeah, you missed it. The Chanu were here yesterday. The commander actually let them in to look for their damn dog."

"Oh, so that's what it was?"

"Aw, who knows. Anyway they admitted it wasn't here." Xhao licked his right index finger and painted an imaginary mark in the air. "Score one for our side."

"Bet Irving was relieved."

"Shit, we were all relieved." Xhao paused. "I did feel kinda sorry for this girl they had with them. I think it musta been her dog. She was actually threatening to kill herself." Xhao shook his head. "I felt like saying, Chica, get a man, get some babies, get a life."

"Ya oughta be a psychiatrist, Xhao."

"Yeah, you need your head examined. Why didn't you let that hippie freak die out there? Just one more vote for the Democrats."

"So, sue me."

"Yeah, he probably will." Xhao rolled his eyes. "The only good civilian is a dead civilian."

Ellison grunted.

"Well, the ones with cunts are all right," Xhao allowed. He reached into his pocket. "Here's the phone numbers you wanted. Have fun."

Ellison took the proffered piece of paper. "Thanks."

"No problem."

Ellison glanced at his watch. "Guess I'm outta here."

"S'long, Ellison." Xhao raised his coffee mug. "To the Army."

"To the Army," Ellison echoed. He raised and drained his own cup.

In the common area he stopped by the trash can. He crumpled the notepaper and the cup together in his fist and dropped them.

Sandburg glanced up from his People's Planet guide. "So?"

"You're coming with me to the capital."

"You get a lotta dates like this?"

"We leave in thirty minutes."

Sandburg assumed a martyred air. He closed his book and stood up. "Does this place have a bathroom or do I have to walk all the way back --"

"What? Oh." Ellison pointed to the front door. "Outside and around back."

Sandburg ambled off.

Ellison turned around and took a deep breath. His heart lurched into high gear.

He walked to Irving's office.

Ellison stopped in the open doorway. Irving was at her desk. He rapped three times on the wall. She glanced up.

They regarded each other silently.

Abruptly Ellison stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Irving did not react.

Ellison tried to think of something clever to say. Something intelligent. Something romantic. Something, for God's sake, before she diagnosed heat stroke and summoned the medics.

He opened his mouth. All that came out was "Goodbye, Colonel."

"Goodbye, Captain."

Ellison realized despairingly he'd never think of anything good to say, not if he thought for a dozen years. All his natural bluntness surged to the fore. He blurted, "Don't you --"

"Oh, yes," she said calmly.

Sandburg was a genius.

Ellison recovered and impulsively moved forward.

Irving held up her hand. "But it wouldn't be a fling for you, would it. You'd never let go."

He said intensely, "Would that be such a bad thing?"

"I'm a colonel. You're a captain. I'm forty-two. You're thirty-one. I'm black. You're white. Yes. It would be a bad thing."

Ellison's eyes narrowed. "You don't give a damn what other people think." He took a step forward and almost growled, "Don't bullshit me."

Irving tipped her head in acknowledgment.

She said slowly, "You're looking for love, Jim. And homey don't do that no more."

Ellison stared at her resolute face.

He heard himself say, idiotically, "You could change your mind."

"No."

"Give it a chance."

"No."

"Elisa --"

"Captain," she said. "Leave it."

Ellison stood very still for a very long moment.

He got to attention. He saluted. "Ma'am."

She pushed back her chair. Rose to her feet. Got to attention. Saluted him.

He turned around and opened the door and walked out.

Sandburg had assumed a lotus position on the floor next to their pile of gear. He looked up mischievously.

Ellison said stonily, "Let's go."

He swung his pack over one shoulder and balanced his duffel over the other. Without a backward glance he walked out of headquarters.

Sandburg caught up with him outside.

"What --"

"We have twenty minutes to catch our ride." Ellison lengthened his stride.

Sandburg said, "Hey, did you see your lady soldier?"

"No," Ellison said.

"But --"

Sandburg looked at him.

Sandburg shut up.

He stayed shut during the entire trudge to the helicopter pad. Remarkable. He was still shut when Ellison hoisted him aboard the Huey, strapped him in and plugged his ears. And then the helicopter lifted off and the roar of the rotors and engine and wind made conversation an impossibility.

Ellison looked down through the open door at the camp melting indistinguishably into the jungle below.

He left it.

 

_The End ___


End file.
